Personal Blogs

“Silence is true wisdom’s best reply.” — Euripides

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There is a quiet beauty in Shaanti. The word itself rolls off the tongue like a whisper, embodying the very peace it signifies. But Shaanti is more than a word. It is a state of being a sanctuary we create within ourselves—especially in a world that seems intent on disturbing it. As an empath, I’ve come to see Shaanti not just as a desire but as a necessity, a lifeline that allows me to navigate a world full of noise, criticism, and negativity.

Empaths feel deeply. We sense tension like electricity in the air, absorb the pain of others as though it were our own, and often find ourselves standing at the crossroads of chaos and calm. It is tempting to be swept into the currents of other people’s storms, but I have learned, sometimes painfully, that not every battle is mine to fight. Not every critical word deserves my energy, and not every misunderstanding demands my defence.

For much of my life, I thought it was my responsibility to explain myself, to clarify my intentions, and to prove my worth to those who misjudged me. I would wrestle with their negativity, hoping to reshape it into understanding. But over time, I realized this was an endless, exhausting endeavor. The truth is, some people see only what they wish to see, filtered through their own biases and insecurities. Their judgment says more about them than it ever does about me.

Letting go of the need to justify myself was one of the most liberating decisions I’ve made. It wasn’t easy. Walking away from a misunderstanding feels counterintuitive, like leaving a wound untreated. But I’ve come to understand that not every wound needs my tending. There is no point in pouring my heart into convincing someone who has already decided who I am. My energy is better spent elsewhere—on those who meet me with kindness, on pursuits that nurture my spirit, and on the quiet cultivation of Shaanti within.

I’ve also learned the importance of boundaries. Toxic people, with their relentless criticism and self-serving agendas, can drain the most vibrant soul. As an empath, I’m particularly susceptible to their influence, often feeling their negativity as acutely as a physical weight. For years, I tolerated such relationships out of a misplaced sense of duty, convincing myself that understanding their pain meant excusing their behaviour. But I’ve come to see that protecting my peace doesn’t make me unkind; it makes me wise. Setting boundaries isn’t about shutting people out; it’s about creating space for the right people to come in.

Still, choosing Shaanti isn’t without its challenges. There are moments when I feel the sting of being misunderstood, of being labelled distant or aloof simply because I refuse to engage in conflict. Some interpret my quiet retreat as weakness, as though my choice to walk away from unnecessary drama reflects a lack of courage. But I know better. It takes immense strength to choose peace when anger beckons, to remain still when provoked, and to let go of battles that serve no purpose.

There is a profound power in silence. It is not the silence of defeat but of resilience, of knowing when words would only feed the flames. In that silence, I find Shaanti. I find myself.

Nature often reminds me of this truth. On early morning walks by the beach, I watch as the waves meet the shore—a gentle rhythm, undeterred by the chaos of the wind. The sea doesn’t argue with the storm; it doesn’t seek to justify its existence. It simply is, constant and enduring. In those moments, I feel a kinship with the water, a reminder that I, too, can remain steady amidst turbulence.

Shaanti is not about avoiding conflict at all costs; it’s about choosing where to place my energy. It’s about recognizing that my peace is precious and that not everyone deserves access to it. It’s about knowing that my worth isn’t diminished by someone else’s misunderstanding and that walking away doesn’t mean I’m weak—it means I’m free.

So I will continue to seek Shaanti in my own quiet way, stepping back when the noise becomes too loud, holding fast to the peace that I’ve cultivated within. I will embrace the misunderstandings, knowing that they do not define me, and I will let go of the need to prove myself to those who cannot see me as I am.

In the end, Shaanti is not something the world gives us. It is something we create, moment by moment, choice by choice. And for those of us who feel deeply, who see the world through the lens of empathy, it is our gift to ourselves—a gentle, unshakable place where we can simply be.

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Éviction

He looks outside from the Café Lumière, his hand lingering on the glass as he watched her. His adult child, animated and confident, handing out pamphlets to passing strangers, her voice carrying a message of salvation. Her polished presence a contrast to the fractured silence she had left in his life. It struck him as odd, that she could pour such devotion into strangers' souls while leaving his questions unanswered. He feels the weight and speaks in his heart; "Il avait autrefois été son sanctuaire."

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Whilst on holiday in the Scottish Highlands, I often get talking to other Europeans. As we admire the sweeping glens and lochs around us, the subject of cultural differences emerge—a topic as wide and deep as the scenery before us. What are the main differences between us Brits and our Dutch cousins is an interesting one and worth bringing to the table.

One characteristic stands out is the British approach to keeping promises. We’re light-hearted about it, often treating promises as tentative rather than binding. “I’ll call you sometime.” “Let’s plan a trip next year.” “Can I borrow some money? I’ll give it back next week.” “There’s no one else.” These words, often spoken casually, linger in the air like faint vapours, easily dissipating without consequence.

The Dutch, however, take a quite different view. Make a promise to a Dutchman, and you are expected to keep it. No, honestly—really expected to keep it. There’s no wriggle room, no casual opt-out clause. I believe we call this virtue loyalty: commitment, faithfulness, the keeping of obligations. It’s a quality I deeply admire, and I suspect I’m not alone. We are drawn to loyal people, aren’t we? There’s something noble about unwavering commitment in a world that often seems fickle and self-serving.

This conversation recalls a familiar figure from my own country: the statue of Greyfriars Bobby that stands in Edinburgh’s Old Town. Bobby, the loyal Skye Terrier, famously spent 14 years guarding the grave of his master, John Grey, after the man’s death in the late 19th century. Bobby’s faithfulness captured the hearts of a nation, inspiring stories, books, and even a Disney movie. The statue remains a poignant symbol of loyalty, a tribute to the enduring bond between the dog and his master.

But here’s where it gets tricky. Why are we so moved by the virtue of loyalty? If we’re nothing more than biological machines, dancing to the dictates of our DNA in an aimless universe, then loyalty should be little more than a chemical impulse, a behaviour arising from evolutionary necessity. And yet, it stirs something deep within us—something profound, almost sacred.

The Bible’s wisdom speaks directly to this. Proverbs 20:6 reads:
“Many a person proclaims his own loyalty, but who can find a trustworthy person?”

Here lies a tension we all recognize. Most people like to think of themselves as loyal and trustworthy—there’s a bias psychologists call illusory superiority. We overestimate our own virtues while often falling short of embodying them. The proverb cuts through this self-assured facade, asking the piercing question: Who can find a trustworthy person?

This rhetorical question points to a deeper truth. Loyalty is rare, perhaps because it requires sacrifice, humility, and a prioritization of others above us. It’s not a virtue we stumble upon by chance; it’s forged through intentionality and assessed in moments of trial. Greyfriars Bobby didn’t sit by that grave for 14 years out of convenience or whim. His loyalty was an act of devotion, something that resonates with us because it points to a greater reality—a reflection of God’s own faithfulness.

In a culture that often prizes personal freedom and flexibility over commitment, loyalty can feel countercultural, even radical. Yet it is precisely this steadfastness that we admire in others and aspire to cultivate in ourselves. The Dutch have a saying: afspraak is afspraak— “a deal is a deal.” It’s a reminder that promises matter, that words carry weight. We Brits could stand to learn a thing or two from our Dutch cousins.

And maybe, just maybe, loyalty matters so much because it hints at a truth beyond us. In a world that sometimes feels aimless, loyalty reminds us that we are part of something greater—that our actions, promises, and commitments echo with meaning far beyond what lays on the surface.

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One enduring legacy my father left me before he passed away was an awareness of an objective morality that manifests itself in all aspects of life and, particularly, in literature. He would often say, "Every story has a moral heartbeat, even if it’s faint." Almost every tale worth telling has a moral denouement: the bad guy loses, the good guy wins. Otherwise, we, the readers, feel robbed. Why should that be? If we are creatures merely “dancing to our DNA” in a “mindless universe,” as Mr. Dawkins suggests, then why should we care about justice? Yet we do.

“The arc of the moral universe is long, but it bends toward justice,” Martin Luther King once said. His words point to a deeper truth: we live in a moral universe, an objective moral universe, whose reflection is cast in literature—stories large and small, stories that move and shape us, often without our conscious realization.

I was raised in the shipyard town of Govan, Glasgow. It was a gritty place, full of hard edges and hard lives. But it was also a place steeped in stories. Every corner seemed to have a tale, whether whispered in the darkened streets or spun at the kitchen table. My father loved stories, and he passed that love to me. He often brought books home—some from the library, others from dusty second-hand shops—and would leave them lying around, perhaps knowing that curiosity would get the better of me.

One day, when I was about ten years old, I found myself in The Modern Book Shop, a cramped little store that sold used books. Its narrow aisles smelled of old paper and damp wood, and I loved it. That particular day, I was drawn to a small book with a curious cover. The illustration depicted a wooden puppet with gangly limbs and wide, expressive eyes. Intrigued, I opened to the first page and read the following epigraph:

“Now it happened that Mr. Cherry, the carpenter, found a piece of wood that laughed and cried like a child.”

And so begins the hero’s journey: to become a real boy. The book, of course, was The Adventures of Pinocchio by Carlo Collodi.

Pinocchio’s story captivated me, not only because it was fantastical but because it felt profoundly true. Here was a puppet, brought to life, yearning to be more than he was. But he was stubborn, prone to lying, easily led astray by temptation. How human he seemed! Yet, at the heart of his journey lay a moral truth: to become a “real boy,” he had to learn courage, selflessness, and integrity. These weren’t arbitrary rules; they were the keys to a meaningful existence. Even as a child, I sensed the weight of this lesson. The story spoke to something deep within me, something my father had often hinted at: the idea that life has a moral fabric, and we are called to live in harmony with it.

Years later, as an adult, I would come to see Pinocchio’s journey as a metaphor for the human condition. Like him, we are all, in a sense, trying to become “real.” We wrestle with our flaws, stumble down wrong paths, and face moments of reckoning. And like Pinocchio, we find that the road to authenticity is paved with choices that test our character.

This notion of an objective morality—a moral compass embedded in the universe—has stayed with me throughout my life. It’s why I find it impossible to believe that morality is merely a human construct. If that were true, why would stories like Pinocchio resonate so universally? Why would we instinctively root for justice, even in fictional worlds? There is something within us that recognizes goodness and beauty and truth—not as inventions, but as reflections of a greater reality.

My father never used grand theological terms to explain this. He didn’t need to. He simply lived it, and he pointed it out in the stories we shared. Whether it was the selflessness of Sydney Carton in A Tale of Two Cities or the triumph of Aslan in The Chronicles of Narnia, he saw these narratives as echoes of the ultimate story: the triumph of good over evil, of light over darkness.

Now, as I reflect on my father’s legacy, I realize how deeply it shaped my own journey. The books he left behind, the stories he loved, and the truths he pointed me toward have become part of who I am. Like Pinocchio, I am still on the road to becoming “real,” still learning what it means to live with courage, selflessness, and integrity. And though my father is no longer here to guide me, his lessons remain—woven into the fabric of my life, much like the moral arc he so passionately believed in.

In the end, it seems fitting that the stories we cherish are not just about heroes and villains, but about us. They remind us that we live in a moral universe, one where justice matters, where truth endures, and where, even in the face of darkness, the light finds a way to shine.

“The mind enslaved by fear or blind faith is a prisoner that builds its own cage.”
— Unknown

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 "I am the way and the truth and the life. 

The term itself conjures images of secretive rituals, fanatical devotion, and bizarre beliefs, but most cults are far subtler. They operate under the guise of legitimate organizations, offering hope, community, or answers to life’s deepest questions. If you’re wondering whether you’re in a cult, you may already sense that something isn’t right. Recognizing the signs often begins with asking hard questions about the group’s practices and your own feelings of freedom and individuality.

At the heart of many cults lies absolute authority. Cult leaders claim to hold exclusive truths—truths that no one else can access. Their teachings and decisions are not to be questioned. If you find yourself unable to voice doubts or challenge leadership without fear of backlash, that’s a significant red flag. Healthy organizations welcome accountability and foster critical thinking, while cults demand unquestioning loyalty.

Another hallmark is isolation. Cults often create an “us versus them” mentality, painting outsiders as threats or enemies. You may be encouraged to limit contact with friends and family who don’t share the group’s beliefs. Over time, this isolation can erode your support network, leaving you increasingly dependent on the group for emotional, social, and even financial needs.

Speaking of finances, cults frequently make extreme demands on members’ time and resources. Whether it’s through monetary contributions, volunteer labour, or total control over your daily life, the group’s needs are prioritized above your own. If you’re constantly sacrificing your well-being or struggling to meet the group’s demands, it’s worth considering whether those sacrifices are reasonable.

Control often extends into the realm of emotions, too. Fear, guilt, and shame are powerful tools in a cult’s arsenal. You might be made to feel unworthy or sinful if you fail to live up to their standards. Fear of leaving—whether due to threats of divine punishment, public shaming, or the loss of community—is another common tactic. Such emotional manipulation can leave you questioning your own judgment, making it harder to see the group’s actions for what they are.

Cults also insist on exclusivity of truth. They claim to have the sole path to salvation, enlightenment, or fulfilment. Other perspectives are dismissed as dangerous, and critical thinking is discouraged. This creates a closed system where the group’s beliefs become self-reinforcing, shutting out alternative viewpoints that could challenge their authority.

Manipulation often begins subtly, with an initial period of love bombing. This is when you’re showered with attention, praise, and affection to draw you in. Over time, however, this warm embrace can turn cold. Public criticism, humiliation, or even shunning may be used to enforce compliance. Members who leave are often ostracized, painted as traitors or failures.

Secrecy is another key feature of cults. You may notice that certain practices or teachings are only revealed once you’re deeply involved. Financial dealings, leadership decisions, or the true extent of the group’s demands might be hidden. Transparency is a hallmark of trustworthy organizations; secrecy is not.

So, how can you know for sure? Ask yourself some honest questions. Do you feel free to leave the group without fear of punishment or loss? Are you encouraged to think critically and ask questions? Does the group’s leadership live consistently with the values they preach, or do they seem to benefit disproportionately from your contributions? Most importantly, do you feel more empowered or diminished by your involvement?

Recognizing these patterns isn’t easy, especially if you’ve invested a lot of time, energy, or emotion into the group. But stepping back to evaluate your situation objectively is crucial. Reach out to trusted friends or family members outside the group for their perspective. Professional counsellors and organizations like the International Cultic Studies Association can also provide guidance and support.

https://www.icsahome.com/

Being part of a community can be a beautiful thing, but true community is built on mutual respect, freedom, and trust. If those elements are missing, it’s worth exploring why—and whether you’re in a place that truly has your best interests at heart.

The length of our days is seventy years—or eighty if we are strong— Psalm 90:10 (BSB)

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The length of our days is seventy years—or eighty if we are strong— Psalm 90:10 (BSB)

There will come a time when I have to depart this earthly existence and so will you. Despite false religious prophecies like "Millions Now Living Will Never Die," They did die. That's not a problem for me, but I would worry about my wife I would leave behind. But, in recent months, God has built a wall around her; protecting her. I feel blessed.

***

At the close of 2023, I went through some medical examinations. On the day I had an appointment to see the consultant for the results, my wife and I read a scripture that morning as we do every morning. It was Psalm 91: 1,2:

‘He who dwells in the shelter of the Most High

Will abide in the shadow of the Almighty.’

I will say to the Lord, “You are my refuge and my fortress,

My God, in whom I trust.’

I said to my wife, ‘we are going to get bad news today.’ She agreed. God had often given us messages through the scriptures that were specific. God continues to speak as he has always spoken, but at times, the right verse miraculously lands in our lap when needed.

And sure enough, cells in the prostate that served me faithfully, turned hostile and have created a rebellion in the pancreas and liver and who knows where else.

The consultant who revealed this, looked at me and said, ‘You are very bravado about this.’

I replied in all confidence, ‘There’s a young man inside me. He has followed me around all his life. His age, I do not know, but he is always there. He comforts me and his presence convinces me God has eternity in view for me,’ I replied.

The truth is, God has ‘set eternity in our hearts.’

We came home that day and read the whole of Psalm 91 and felt a great sense of comfort. I have no sensation of what the Germans call torschlusspanik, that awareness that the doors are closing in on me. No, I wake with a miraculous feeling of peace that only comes from God and Christ.

When I think of God, Christ, and my relationship with my wife, I am drawn to the Punjabi word  Fikar (ਫਿਕਰ): Though it translates to "worry" or "concern," it implies a deeper sense of care and responsibility, often used in a context of emotional attachment.

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We were just kids growing up in the Glasgow tenements in the sixties. my two pals and I liked to poke around old, broken-down buildings with sticks, searching for treasure—or just anything really. Once I found a Meccano Set that I played with for years. 

I think it was Harry one day who found an old jacket. He dug around in the pockets and pulled out three five-pound notes and a ten-bob note. We couldn’t believe it We were so happy we jumped up and down.

We got a fiver each and  with the ten-bob note, we treated ourselves to a big meal, and then we bought three tins of Creamola Foam. We mixed it with water and spent the day sucking the tasty fizz!

Through the march of time, there are moments that dance in our minds and hearts. Rising to the surface when we least expect them. Like the Northern Lights, they are awe inspiring and difficult to grasp. They Illuminate the deepest parts of our soul before vanishing just as suddenly. They remain unfinished, like the cadence of a Tranströmer poem; Elliptical and incomplete, they interrupt the narrative of life, appearing without warning. And that’s the way it should be.

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My wife and I visited Glasgow last night to enjoy the lights and markets at George Square. We then went for some food in a Greek restaurants. On the return to the train station we passed a place that brought a memory flooding in.

It was winter 2010, and I was returning from giving a speech in Oban on Scotland’s west coast. The train stopped at Crianlarich due to a heavy snowfall that blocked the tracks. As I waited, I watched a group of adults rediscover their childhood joy, building a massive snowman on the platform to pass away the hours. Their laughter echoed in the frosty air.

It was late in the evening when I finally arrived back in Glasgow. The streets that bustled earlier were alone for the evening.

But amidst the contemplative silence in a shadowy corner was a lone piper, standing resolute against the chill. As Highland Cathedral echoed through the darkness, the haunting melody filled the night. I gave way to tears as many other lonely walkers may have that evening. I was touched by the unexpected beauty of it all.

Highland Cathedral 

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OAleMD6InzU

A perverse person stirs up conflict, and a gossip separates close friends.

Proverbs 16:25

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Language often encapsulates the essence of human behaviour, and the Hindi word Afwah-parast (अफ़वाह-परस्त), meaning "worshipper of rumours," serves as a piercing critique of a universal flaw: the inclination to believe and propagate gossip. This seemingly innocuous habit has the power to dismantle relationships, corrode trust, and strip individuals of their dignity. Gossip and slander, at their core, are not mere idle talk; they are inhumane acts that compromise the moral integrity of society, revealing the darker underpinnings of human nature.

Gossip thrives on curiosity, often cloaked in the guise of concern or shared amusement. Yet its impact can be devastating. Once spoken, words have a life of their own, mutating and spreading beyond their origin. The worshippers of rumours—those who propagate unverified and often malicious tales—fuel this process. They seldom pause to consider the human cost of their actions. The damage inflicted is not always immediately visible, but it leaves deep scars on the individual targeted and the communal trust eroded in the process.

In John Steinbeck’s East of Eden, Cathy Ames embodies the destructive power of gossip. Her character represents the pinnacle of manipulation and malice, using slander as a weapon to achieve her dark objectives. Cathy plants seeds of mistrust with precision, leveraging the gullibility of those around her to sow discord and control outcomes. She is not merely a participant in the spreading of rumours; she is their architect, a master puppeteer who thrives on the chaos she creates. Her actions illustrate the deliberate and calculated harm that gossip can inflict when wielded as a tool of manipulation.

Cathy’s ability to manipulate others stems from her understanding of human vulnerability. She preys on the innate human tendency to trust, to seek validation, and to revel in the missteps of others. This mirrors the cultural universality of Afwah-parast, as it highlights how societies across the globe are susceptible to the allure of rumour. In Cathy’s world, words are weapons, and those who believe and repeat them become unwitting accomplices in her schemes. Her character underscores how gossip and slander can act as both an individual and collective failing, magnified by our propensity to uncritically accept and propagate falsehoods.

The act of indulging in gossip is not a victimless crime. It erodes the dignity of those targeted, reducing them to caricatures or objects of ridicule. It fractures communities by fostering mistrust and breeding resentment. More insidiously, it diminishes the moral compass of those who engage in it. Each repetition of a rumour, every whispered falsehood, tightens the chains of inhumanity, drawing individuals further from empathy and compassion. Like Cathy Ames, the Afwah-parast thrives on division, creating a world where relationships are transactional, and trust is fragile.

The antidote to the inhumane act of gossip lies in cultivating a culture of verification and compassion. Before repeating a story, we must ask ourselves: is it true, is it kind, and is it necessary? To counter the spirit of Afwah-parast, individuals must choose to be stewards of truth, rejecting the seductive pull of unverified tales. As Steinbeck’s narrative warns, the price of indulging in slander is the loss of humanity itself.

In a world rife with rumours, the call to rise above Afwah-parast is not just a moral imperative but a necessity for preserving the integrity of human connection. Whether through the insidious manipulation of a character like Cathy Ames or the everyday gossip shared over coffee, the destructive power of slander must be confronted. Only by refusing to worship at the altar of rumours can humanity reclaim its dignity and rebuild the bonds that sustain us.

"A man who is kind and humble at heart will always see his father as an idol and a hero. Treasure that sentiment while you are still young."

Fyodor Dostoevsky

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Echoes of Natsukashii

My father closed his eyes when I was ten years old. I was adopted by an uncle who was old to be a father. Memories of my adoptive father are like distant candles, too far to emit significant light. What I do recall is that he was kind, but firm; qualities that every child needs.

I have one picture of us when I was seven. He has a Mediterranean look as I recall. Many agree that he looked like the actor, Antony Quinn, rugged with compassionate eyes. He is dressed in white shirt and black trousers. He appears dignified.

His business was successful which allowed us to live in a nice building in the shipyard town of Govan. His proudest possession was not the home, but the view from our third storey. When visitors came, he would point over to Hills Trust Primary School and tell them it was the school John Mclean (1879-1923) taught in. Although McLean was a half century out of the public eye, Mother Glasgow’s memory is infinite and everyone remembered him as the political activist who was dismissed by the Govan School Board for ‘Using language likely to cause a breach of the peace.’

 Mclean taught evening classes in Marxism and political economics. Dad shared his views, and he would put me on his shoulders and march round the house singing John McLean’s March; a song that celebrated Mclean’s release from prison.

"Hey Mac did ya see him as he came doon the Gorgie

Away o'er the Lammerlaw and north o' the Tay

Yon man is coming now the whole toon is turnin' oot

We're all sure he'll win back tae Glasgow today."

I never understood the foreign sounding words, but I enjoyed the bonding as he marched round the living room ignoring the precarious position of ornaments and photos as they defied gravity.

Books were his pleasure: Twain, Dickens, and The Untouchables by Eliot Ness. It was the sense of justice and injustice explored by these writers that appealed to him. Bedtime stories were memorable as I would be privy to abridged versions of Oliver Twist, David Copperfield, and Huckleberry Finn. They were related with incredible feats of memory and accent skills, enhanced by his rhythmic wheeze that was sustained from a childhood bronchial condition.

He always had time for the lonely. I recall an ex-employee regularly visiting us. Jimmy was his name. He was young, but his long brown coat, working boots and seven o’clock shadow aged him. Jimmy stopped working for my father when he was admitted to a mental institution with schizophrenia. He had a severe stutter, and my father, with his hands clasped like a priest would, patiently listen to Jimmy, as he lost all self-respect when rhythmically moving his head back and forth like a Rabbi reading the Mishnah to blurt out a simple sentence. It was stressful for all in his company.

In ‘66 Dad was rushed into hospital with respiratory failure. My last image was a pale looking man gasping for life.

A few years ago, I was at the Edinburgh Festival; a BBC live recording. The folk group, Tonight at Noon performed John MacLean’s March. My eyes filled with pleasing tears. When I related this memory to Kanoko, a Japanese friend, she put both hands to her mouth and uttered ‘natsukashii.’ In this context, she was using a word for a positive nostalgia; a fleeting, but sweet memory, initiated by music.

Nostalgia is a vogue word that’s obscured by abuse, misuse, and overuse in society. Like a last-minute kedgeree, the various nuances of memory are thrown into one pot and labelled ‘nostalgia’ in our English language. But memory is never that simple, the complexity of images and films drawn up in our private vaults hidden away from human scrutiny, reveal a colourful array of thoughts and meanings that change with the transfer of time and space and present themselves in colourful assemblages of meaning, reminding us we are unique and individual.

 Translation of John Mclean's March

Hey, Mac, did you see him as he came down Gorgie

Away over the Lammermuir Hills and north of the Tay?

That man is coming now; the whole town is turning out.

We're all sure he'll make it back to Glasgow today.

“Music expresses that which cannot be put into words and that which cannot remain silent.”

Victor Hugo:

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I saw you at the Andre Rieu concert in Tel Aviv crying. I saw you at Runrig’s 2018 concert crying when the Islay Glasgow Gaelic Choir sung Cearcal a’ Chuin with Donnie Monroe. I saw you at the Andre Rieu concert crying to Highland Cathedral and I saw you crying your eyes out  to Plasear d amour. And guess what? I did likewise.

Have you ever found yourself sitting at a concert, eyes welling up with tears, or noticed someone else sobbing quietly during a song? Maybe their tears set you off too, and suddenly you’re sharing an emotional moment with complete strangers, even from our tv screens It’s a curious thing, isn’t it? Why does music—something so intangible—hold the power to move us to tears? Let’s explore this together.

There’s something about music that bypasses logic. It doesn’t need to explain itself—it simply touches the deepest parts of us. At a concert, when your favourite song plays, it’s not just sound; it’s an experience. A melody can unlock memories, a lyric can speak your truth, and the energy of a live performance can amplify emotions you didn’t know you had bottled up.

Think about the last time you heard a song that took you back to a specific moment in your life. Maybe it reminded you of a lost loved one, a first love, or even a time when you overcame something difficult. That’s the power of music—it connects us to our stories.

Concerts aren’t just about music; they’re about being part of something bigger. Look around at the crowd. Thousands of people, all from different walks of life, are singing along to the same lyrics. For a few hours, you’re not alone in your feelings.

This shared experience is what makes concerts so unique. The collective energy, the cheering, the swaying—it's like everyone is holding hands, even if they’re strangers. When we cry at concerts, it’s often because we feel seen and understood in that moment of connection.

Have you ever noticed how contagious emotions can be? Someone in the row ahead wipes away a tear, and suddenly, you’re choking up too. There’s a reason for this: our brains are wired to empathize. Scientists call it mirror neurons—the little brain cells that let us feel what others feel.

When we see someone else overcome with emotion, it reminds us of our own vulnerabilities. Their tears might not even be about the same thing, but it doesn’t matter. In that moment, their raw, unfiltered humanity speaks to yours.

Sometimes, crying at a concert isn’t about the song or the crowd—it’s about you. Life gets heavy. We carry stress, grief, or even joy that we haven’t fully processed. Music has this way of unlocking those emotions.

Concerts create a safe space for that release. No one’s judging you for tearing up during a ballad or clapping through the tears during an encore. It’s cathartic, like a weight lifted off your chest.

There’s also the awe factor. Have you ever watched a truly breath-taking performance and thought, how is this even possible? Whether it’s the talent of the artist, the beauty of the music, or the overwhelming realization that you are part of something extraordinary, awe has a way of spilling out as tears.

Ultimately, crying at concerts is a testament to how deeply human we are. We’re emotional creatures, moved by beauty, connection, and shared experiences. Tears remind us that beneath all the roles we play—parent, worker, friend—we’re just people trying to make sense of life and feel something real.

So, the next time you find yourself crying at a concert—or crying because someone else is—embrace it. It’s not just about the music; it’s about being alive, fully and completely, in that moment.

"It is never too late to be wise."

Daniel Defoe's Robinson Crusoe

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One of the great charms of the BBC Radio Four Desert Island Discs programme lies in the way it delicately uncovers the soul of its guest. Through the alchemy of music, books, and a solitary luxury item, a castaway’s life is distilled into the essence of their values, struggles, and joys. It’s an enchanting premise. Who hasn’t fantasized about being on that program, curating their eight tracks, choosing a book, and pondering the significance of their luxury item? For a writer, the appeal is especially tantalizing; it offers the ultimate exercise in storytelling, a self-portrait painted in notes, words, and objects.

Yet, despite my admiration for the show and its many luminaries, there is one recurring moment that always startles me: the occasional refusal of the Bible. Guests are invited to accept it as part of their island toolkit—alongside Shakespeare’s collected works—but some decline. This leaves me momentarily speechless. How, I wonder, can anyone maroon themselves without a book that has nourished souls, inspired minds, and shaped civilizations?

For believers like me, the Bible’s importance is profound, transcending its literary virtues. Yet, even for those without faith, the Bible stands as one of humanity’s greatest treasures—a sprawling library of history, poetry, wisdom, and parable that illuminates the human condition with unparalleled depth.

The Bible is not merely a religious text; it is an anthology, a tapestry of genres. Within its pages are soaring hymns of praise like Psalm 23, which has comforted millions: “The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want.” Its rhythms are timeless, like a heartbeat in the dark, reassuring and grounding. There is the stark poetry of Ecclesiastes, which peers into the fleeting nature of life: “To everything there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven.” There are the fiery dramas of the prophets, the tender love poetry of Song of Solomon, and the unflinching wisdom of Proverbs. Few other works of literature encompass so broad a spectrum of human experience.

Consider the parables of Jesus, simple stories with profound truths. The Good Samaritan transcends time and place, calling us to question prejudice and act with compassion. It takes genius to express such complex themes in such plain, unforgettable language.

And then there is the book of Job, arguably one of the greatest pieces of world literature. Here, the problem of human suffering is explored with unsparing honesty. Job’s lament— “Why is light given to him that is in misery, and life unto the bitter in soul?”—speaks to the anguish of every broken heart, and yet it also reaches for the eternal, seeking answers beyond the grasp of mortal understanding.

The Bible, at its core, reveals what it means to be human. It grapples with our flaws and our virtues, our doubts and our faith, our fears and our hopes. Its characters are not paragons of virtue but profoundly flawed individuals, from David, the psalmist and adulterer, to Peter, the impetuous disciple who denied his Lord. Through their failings, we find ourselves reflected.

Even as a child, I sensed this when I first encountered the Bible’s stories. I was drawn to its honesty, the way it never flattered its heroes but presented them warts and all. This unvarnished truth has stayed with me, shaping my understanding of humanity and the grace we so often need.

Even for those who view the Bible purely as a cultural artifact, its influence is impossible to ignore. Shakespeare himself was shaped by it; its cadences resonate through his plays and sonnets. The abolitionists drew strength from its call for justice, as did Martin Luther King Jr. The English language itself owes much to the King James Bible, whose phrases— “by the skin of my teeth,” “the powers that be,” “the writing on the wall”—have entered everyday speech.

To refuse the Bible on a desert island, therefore, is to cut oneself off from a wellspring of language, culture, and thought. It is to lose a dialogue not only with God but with humanity’s deepest questions and struggles. And on an island, alone with the horizon, who would not want such a companion?

If I were a castaway, I could no more refuse the Bible than I could refuse water. Its words have shaped me, anchored me, and consoled me in moments of despair. I would need it not just to sustain my faith but to remind me of the vast, interconnected story of humanity—a story in which we are all characters, struggling, failing, and hoping.

I do not expect to find myself as a guest on Desert Island Discs. But if I did, I would have to think carefully about the books and music I would want stranded with and I will consider this for a future essay.